


Through Glass Eyes

by pyrtania



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Gen, Sentimental, growing up story, small child dongwoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrtania/pseuds/pyrtania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A teddy bear does not depend upon mechanics to give him the semblance of life. He is loved - and therefore he lives." -Pam Brown</p><p>Dongwoo's favorite toy watches him grow up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Glass Eyes

 

 

 

I met three-year-old Dongwoo today.

   
I was the last present he opened. He ripped off the wrapping paper surrounding me roughly, tossing it aside. I heard a loud gasp and glimpsed messy black hair and pink cheeks before little hands grabbed me and crushed me against a tiny chest. His arms were soft, but they held me tightly. He was very warm.  
   
His mother laughed, and his sister ruffled his hair playfully. “Do you like it, Dongwoo?”  
   
“Yes!” He pulled back, holding me in front of his face. He was smiling so big I was afraid it was hurting his small face.  
   
“What are you going to name him, honey?” His mother’s voice was sweet and high-pitched, babying.  
   
“Boo,” said Dongwoo, looking at me with love already.  
   
 _Boo._  
   
“Happy birthday, honey,” his mom said for the third time today, squeezing both me and Dongwoo into a tight hug.  
   
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is four years old, and the two of us are inseparable.

   
I spend every minute of the day with him. He carries me to the grocery store when he goes shopping with his mom, to the doctor’s office where he squeezes me so tightly I can feel him trembling, to the park where he pushes me on the swing so I can play, too.  
   
Sometimes, I wish that I was human.  
   
I wish I could push him on the swing, higher and higher until his little hands touch the clouds. I wish I could take care of him, like last week when he fell on the sidewalk and scraped his knees so badly streams of red started to run down his leg. He cried and cried and all I could do was watch and try to make my fur as soft and comforting as possible.  
   
But that night, he wrapped me in his warm embrace as he slept, his chest rising and falling in a comforting and familiar rhythm. And I was happy.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo left me at the park today.

   
We were sitting in the sandbox and he was building a big city just for the two of us to live in.  
   
“This is your house,” he said, patting the mound of sand in between his splayed legs. “It’s a very pretty house, the biggest house in the  _whoooooole_  world.” He looked up from his creation to smile at me, his eyes shining. His smile was so bright.  
   
“Dongwoo!” His mother was calling his name from across the park. “Ice cream!”  
   
Dongwoo’s face lit up faster that I’d ever seen.  
   
“Ice cream!” He shouted happily, shooting up. He quickly brushed the sand off of his shorts and jumped out of the sandbox.  
   
He started to race across the park. I watched his back as he got smaller and smaller.  
   
I waited for him to turn around, for his figure to grow larger as he ran back to get me, panting and saying how sorry he was that he almost forgot me.   
   
I waited.  
   
And waited.  
   
But he didn’t come back.  
   
I wondered if this was the end. There are so many stories of toys being left behind, lying forgotten under a table at a restaurant or a movie theater seat. Surely Dongwoo wouldn’t forget me this easily…  
   
…would he?  
   
I wondered if toys could cry.  
   
The sky had already grown dark, the air cold. Dongwoo still hadn’t come back for me. It had been hours. I started to accept that I was never going to see him again when-  
   
“Boo!  _BOO_!”  
   
I could hear a voice calling my name. It didn’t sound right; it was too high and choked.  
   
“ _Boo_!”  
   
Suddenly, I was lifted out of the sand and surrounded by familiar arms, soft and warm. Dongwoo’s chest was heaving, rising and falling without rhythm as he sobbed into my fur. As his tears dripped onto my head, there was no anger or sadness inside of me. I only wished I could hug him back, tell him that it was okay, that he didn’t need to cry.  
   
“Boo, I’m so sorry, I’m  _so_  sorry. I left you, Boo, I’m so  _sorry_.” He said over and over, hiccupping and sobbing and sniffling.  
   
He didn’t let go of me all the way home. I stayed in the comforting circle of him arms the entire night, and all I could think about was how much I loved him, how glad I was to be home again.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is six years old now. He started kindergarten a couple of weeks ago.

   
His mother found me inside his backpack where Dongwoo had tried to hide me. After a few minutes of convincing, Dongwoo took me back to his room, carefully placing me in bed and pulling the covers tightly around me.  
   
“Mommy says I can’t bring you to school with me,” Dongwoo said sadly. “But you can just sleep while I go to school and we can play when I get back, okay?” He patted my head gently. “Goodnight, Boo!”  
   
He turned off the lights and shut the door quietly. I didn’t mind.  
   
When he comes home from school, we always play together. So my hours spent in the dark, alone in his room, are filled with questions of what Dongwoo would tell me about school that day, or what games we would play together.  
   
At night, he still holds me as he sleeps. I am happy.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is a funny kid.

   
He laughs a lot. Too much, some people think. But I think it’s just enough. He is honest and loyal, sticking to what he believes in and trying his very best to make other people happy.  
   
He’s not the most careful of children. My ear is stained from when he accidentally dropped some ice cream on my head, and my back is streaked with marker. But he had been holding out his ice cream to offer his sister some, and with that marker he drew me a very beautiful picture.  
   
Some people don’t really understand him. He thinks differently than everyone else. He acts differently, too. But I think it’s a good thing. There’s nobody else in this world like Jang Dongwoo.  
   
Last night we were lying in his bed, his arms around me as always. I thought he was already asleep by the slow rise and fall of his chest against my back. But he suddenly squeezed me tighter against his body and pressed a kiss into my fur.  
   
“I love you, Boo,” he whispered.  
   
And it was then, more than ever, that I wished that I could speak to him. Because then I could say what I’ve always wanted to say.  
   
 _I love you more_.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is eight now.

   
Baseball cards and old footballs replace the stuffed animals and toy cars in his room. He spends more time outside with his friends than inside playing with his toys.  
   
I understand. It’s all part of growing up.  
   
Sometimes he forgets to talk to me when he comes home from school. Sometimes he forgets to tell me about his day, about his friends or his teachers. Sometimes he forgets to take me off the shelf at night. Sometimes he forgets to hold me while he sleeps.  
   
But sometimes, he doesn’t forget.  
   
Those days, when he holds me tight and talks about his friend Hoya and how they race each other during recess, are what make me happy. And those nights, when his arms are warm around me and his breath ruffles my fur as he breathes in and out, are what keep me happy.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is eleven now, and I don’t see him very much anymore.

   
His room no longer displays toy trains and learning-to-read books. Baseball caps and smelly uniforms litter the floor. His desk is adorned with a signed baseball, and pictures of his team with a large trophy, and a picture of him and Hoya laughing at the camera. I am the only memory of his childhood left, slouched on a shelf high above his bed, next to an old photo of his aunt and cousins.  
   
Most days, the things he leaves behind are all I see.  
   
He spends most of his time either at school or baseball practice. When he does come home, he sits at his desk pondering over homework. From the conversations I overhear between his mom and dad, he’s a pretty smart kid.  
   
No one needed to tell me that, though. I always knew.  
   
Every once in a while, Dongwoo would catch my eye and smile, reach up to bring me down from my high home. He strokes my head with a gentle finger and confines in me about how much he loves baseball or how he doesn’t understand why girls giggle so much. I just sit and listen, soaking in the warmth of his touch that I don’t get to feel much anymore.  
   
Last night, he fell asleep with me in his arms. It felt good.  
   
I’ve missed that feeling.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is fourteen now.

   
He hasn’t taken me down from my shelf in a year.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is sixteen.

   
I knew that it was going to happen before it did.  
   
I saw the twinkle in his eyes that would appear whenever he sat on his bed and just stared at the ceiling. I saw the small smile on his lips when he would check his text messages. I saw the way he dove across the room when his phone began to ring, flipping it open and breathing a heavy, “Oh, hey. Nothing, what’re you doing?”  
   
So when the door opens and Dongwoo leads her inside his room, I’m not surprised.  
   
She’s pretty. Naturally pretty, without too much make-up. She is dressed modestly but still very feminine, showing off the shape of her body in a subtle, tasteful way. Her short, cropped hair lays in wisps around her face. She’s short, shorter than Dongwoo, but still quite thin and rather graceful.  
   
“So…what do you think?” I can tell that Dongwoo is nervous by the tone of his voice and the way he’s chewing slightly on his bottom lip.  
   
(His face has lost its baby fat, sadly. There’s no trace of the happy, button-nosed child in the sharp jawline and high cheekbones. His eyes are intense, making him look like he’s always intently focused, but that’s just the way his eyes are. His lips are large and cherry red, teeth blindingly white. His shoulders are broad and rock-hard, muscled from rigorous practices.  
   
He’s beautiful.  
   
There is one thing that remains the same, though: his smile. His face still lights up when he laughs, eyes curving into happy half-moons, lips stretched to reveal a wide-open mouth.)  
   
“I like it,” she says, her eyes tracing over the baseball pictures and awards. “It fits you.” Her voice is quiet, somehow musical.  
   
“Thanks,” Dongwoo chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. Still nervous.  
   
It surprises me when her eyes meet mine. “Cute bear,” she smiles.  
   
Dongwoo’s eyes flash up to look at me and our eyes meet for the first time in very long time.  
   
“Oh yeah, that’s just something from when I was little, you know.” He averts his eyes, blushing. Is he ashamed of me?  
   
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed.” She reaches up to gently take me down from the shelf. She brushes off the dust that had settled in my fur.  Her fingers are long and lithe, stroking the fur between my eyes.  
   
It’s been so long since I’ve been held. Been loved.  
   
I’ve missed it.  
   
“Growing up, my teddy bear was my very best friend.” She smiles at me again, a faraway look in her eyes. I decide that I like this girl.  
   
Dongwoo stands up and moves next to her, reaching out a tentative finger. His hands may have changed, larger and stronger and tougher, but the touch is the same.  
   
Still warm.  
   
He looks into my eyes, a small smile creeping onto his lips. “Really? Me too.”  
   
I think toys do have hearts, because something inside of me filled with so much happiness I almost burst.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is seventeen now.

   
He’s given up baseball and gotten into dancing. And I think it works for him. I’ve seen him, moving to beat of the music, dancing around his room. His body seems to be made for it. He moves so effortlessly, so fluidly. When he dances, I see his emotions. Anger, happiness, contentment, confidence.  
   
It’s amazing.  
   
She comes over every weekend now. Sometimes she holds me and strokes my fur. It’s a pleasant feeling.  
   
But most importantly, Dongwoo seems to have remembered me.  
   
I have moved from my perch on the high shelf and now sit atop his desk, in plain view. He still holds me sometimes. His arms are harder, laced with muscle. But warm, still warm.  
   
Still Dongwoo.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is eighteen.

   
College is right around the corner.  
   
His mother tried to pack me away in a box destined for charity. Dongwoo saved me at the last moment. His mother reminded him that he was leaving soon, that he is an adult now.  
   
“Just because I am an adult doesn’t mean that I have to forget my childhood,” he had said.  
   
That night, we lay in bed together, his arms around me tightly. It felt just like it had all those years ago.  
   
I was happy.  
   
 

 

 

Dongwoo is leaving for college today.

   
His stuff is packed up in heavy cardboard boxes, bed stripped and closet empty. He left to carry his stuff out to the car. The room is so empty without him, so dim without the light of his smile. I am the only thing left unpacked, still sitting on the desktop.  
   
I wonder what that means for me.  
   
He returns. He sits on his bed, glancing around the last few boxes, the bare walls, and the empty desk. I see it in his eyes.  
   
Memories.  
   
Just then, the door bursts open and a small bundle of black hair and chubby cheeks launches itself straight at Dongwoo. Dongwoo laughs, swinging his nephew into the air before resting the child on his hips, one arm around the tiny back.  
   
“Hey there, Jongie! What are you doing in here?”  
   
The little boy, Sungjong, rests his tiny cheek against Dongwoo’s shoulder, a tiny hand gripping the neck of Dongwoo’s sweater. “Mommy says that Uncle Dongie’s going away,” he whimpers, small lip quivering.  
   
Dongwoo brushes a strand of hair out of Sungjong’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Uncle Dongie’s just going away for school. I’ll be back in no time.”  
   
Sungjong’s eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill over, and he buries his head into Dongwoo’s neck. Dongwoo just pats his back comfortingly; he’s always been good with children.  
   
They are silent, the only sound being the quiet sniffling.  
   
Dongwoo turns around to slide a box off his bed, and my eyes meet two, small, watery ones.  
   
Sungjong gasps, making grabby hands in my direction. “Teddy!”  
   
Sungjong wiggles out of Dongwoo’s arms to run over and pluck me off the desk, enveloping me into his arms.  
   
“That’s my teddy bear, Jongie. His name is Boo.”  
   
Sungjong’s arms feel nothing like Dongwoo’s; I don’t think anyone’s arms will ever feel quite the same. Sungjong’s grip isn’t very tight, and his arms are frail. It still feels nice, though. I feel his childlike love already seeping into my fur.  
   
“Boo,” he says, his voice muffled as he presses his face against my stomach. “My Boo.”  
   
I can see over his shoulder as he crushes me to his chest. I look up into Dongwoo’s eyes. He looks down into mine.  
   
And I see.  
   
I see a small, wide-eyed kid that had a knack for losing things. He isn’t the most careful, but he has a big heart. He has a laugh that brings warmth into your heart and makes your head feel light. I see ice cream and pictures, small hands gripping a teddy bear tightly. I see baseball bats and a pretty girl and clothes rumpled on the floor. I see late nights, whispers into the dark as the boy and his teddy bear lay side by side. I see castles and houses made of sand, a whole world made just for them.  
   
I know Dongwoo sees what I see. Somehow, without saying a word, we both know.  
   
“Yes, Jongie,” he said, his voice soft and thick with memories. “Your Boo. Promise me you’ll take good care of him, okay? He’s very special to Uncle Dongie.”  
   
Sungjong just nods, hugging Dongwoo around the waist. Dongwoo squeezes him back, patting his small back gently.  
   
“Now, go run and find Mommy, okay? Uncle Dongie has to finish packing.”  
   
As Sungjong leaves the room, I can see over his shoulder. Dongwoo stands in the middle of the room, his eyes still full of memories. He stares at me. Then he smiles, raising a hand in farewell.  
   
And even though I am still a toy, even though I can’t talk, I think he heard me.  
   
 _Thank you_.

 

  
   
   
 

 

 

Sungjong is four years old, and the two of us are inseparable.

 


End file.
